


Weapons

by littleloonlost



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-27
Updated: 2015-04-27
Packaged: 2018-03-26 02:20:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3833383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleloonlost/pseuds/littleloonlost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the prompt: "Canon divergence: Arya goes to the Eyrie instead of Sansa and trains with Littlefinger."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Weapons

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ladybird97](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=ladybird97).



I should have let him die.

The thought throbbed in her head like her bones in the saddle. The road got steeper the farther east they went. She didn’t think the horses would last much longer. Hers was scrawnier, but his had the hard job. Again he swayed in the saddle and the horse staggered under the shifting weight. She passed time guessing which would give out first - the horse’s legs or the Hound’s seat.

We’re going to the Eyrie, he said. I’m going to sell you to your Aunt Lysa. 

Arya had never met her Aunt Lysa. She wondered how much a strange orphan girl was worth to her. Perhaps being the only one left drove the price up. She wouldn’t be surprised if Lysa were dead by the time they arrived.

I should. Have let. Him die.

It was a poor prayer, recited with neither hope nor fervour, but she needed something to fill her head and the gods knew the endless rocky peaks were no distraction. If it hadn’t been getting harder, she’d wonder if they were really moving at all.

I should. Have let. Him… Die.

The horse made it across a small crest, and she caught her breath. 

Saying the names wasn’t enough anymore. She didn’t know which of them were living or dead, and names were no match for the things she’d seen, through girl’s eyes and wolf’s.

He slumped forward and his eyelids fluttered. “Hey!” she cried. “How much farther? Can we get there by nightfall?”

He gave a thin bark she thought was meant to be a laugh. “I’m counting on darkness, girl. Nobody would pay for you if they could see you.”

She should have let him die.

 

*

 

It nearly ended at the Bloody Gate, when the Knight of the Gate insisted on taking their weapons.

“I can’t stand and she’s a little girl,” the Hound snarled. “I heard the Knights of the Vale were supposed to be _warriors_.”

But he saved what was left of his strength to insist on being tied to a mule and accompanying the party ascending the mountain.

“It’s easy to forget to pay a man his due when he’s at the bottom of a bloody mountain and the prize is at the top.”

Ser Donnel Waynwood looked like he’d be surprised if Arya fetched enough for a cup of wine and some pigeon pie.

“I’m not going anywhere without Needle. Someone took it from me once. That won’t happen again.”

Her hand hadn’t left the hilt since they’d arrived.

Ser Donnel frowned. “My… lady, none who enter the Eyrie carry steel without Lady Arryn’s consent. You have my solemn vow as a knight that your weapon will be returned if the Lady permits.”

Arya didn’t know much about Lysa Arryn, but she couldn’t imagine her mother’s sister thinking swords were suitable accessories for a lady. People were so stupid. It was just as pointy in her hand as in Jon’s. 

She said, “I’d rather have a sword than a promise.”

“Then you cannot pass.”

Nor could she leave, it transpired, Ser Donnel being too afraid of his Lady’s niece being cut to pieces by the hill tribes to put her out. 

They lingered for a few days while the Hound’s wound was tended, at least a little better than she’d managed herself. Once he got back on his feet he’d knock her out and drag her up the mountain himself, if the knights let him get away with it. She just had to figure out a plan. If she could get to Gulltown, she could take ship to Eastwatch-by-the- Sea, but she would need money. The broken-down horse was no good. Perhaps she could earn her passage somehow.

She was stuffing buns into her mouth and poring over maps that evening, when a voice made her jump. 

“Arya Stark. The dog brought in something useful after all.”

She knew the voice, but it didn’t belong here. 

_“Littlefinger?”_

His smile broadened slowly like unwrapping a gift.

“You may call me Uncle.”

 

*

 

Lysa’s maid squealed in horror as she tried to drag a brush through Arya’s hair. She cut some away, but not enough that Arya could pretend to be a boy again. She didn’t mind much. There were worse things than wearing skirts – like being married. For now, Baelish and Lysa seemed far more interested in the little Lord of the Vale’s wife than Arya’s husband. It would have been almost satisfying, seeing it done to a boy, if there hadn’t been a girl in a bride’s cloak on the other side.

Lysa tried to make her sew her own gowns. The days she spent tangled in thread made her miss being on the road, but the look on her aunt’s face at the sight of her, all scrubbed down and dressed up, was worth it.

She pulled her worst curtsy. “Lady Arryn. Lord Baelish.”

Little Robert began to giggle until he coughed. Arya winked at him as his mother turned him away. He probably wouldn’t be so awful if he’d had a sister. She wouldn’t have let him be.

Baelish took her by the chin and tilted her head back. His hand was soft and cool. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been touched gently. Even the maid had yanked her hair until she was sure it must fall out and taken a brush to her as if she had the hide of a horse. He looked right through her. She wondered what he could see.

The Hound had warned her as soon as he heard Baelish was there. “You can’t trust him, girl. And don’t fool yourself you’re cleverer than he is. He’ll think you into an early grave.”

“He grew up with my mother.”

“And if your father hadn’t been fool enough to trust him, you might still have some family.”

Aunt Lysa had had the Hound thrown into one of the sky cells before she could find out what he meant.

“Are you sure you aren’t one of Ned’s bastards?” Baelish asked, the tip of his nose curled in distaste. 

“There’s only one.”

She was surprised how it still stung to think of Jon. She drummed her fingers against her hip where Needle’s hilt should be.

Baelish smiled.

“Of course, my dear.” 

He squeezed her face softly and let it go.

“You certainly have your mother’s spirit. Of course.”

Lysa sniffed. “The North sent Cat wild.”

For a moment Arya saw with wolf’s eyes. Baelish cleared his throat before she could speak. 

“Cat … adapted. Don’t worry, my love. I can see that our niece will have that ability to become what she needs to be.”

She wondered what he needed her to be.

 

*

 

Arya woke with a start, heart pounding. It was just a stupid dream, that was all. She’d been in bed, so it hadn’t seemed like a dream, but she’d been in her chamber at Winterfell, with Sansa in the next bed. She was listening to see if Sansa was asleep because she meant to slip down to the kitchens to find a treat for Nymeria. If Sansa woke, she would tell. It was a stupid dream, but in waking she had lost them all again too suddenly to bear.

She threw back the blankets and went to prowl the castle. There was nothing interesting in the Eyrie. Nothing interesting could get there. Lysa and Petyr kept everything they found interesting locked away like their motives. Even the Hound. She’d tried to find the way down to the sky cells, but the guard was too stupid to trick and too solid to move.

Southerners thought Winterfell a cold, dark place, but it had always been warm there. The hot springs saw to that. There was always a bitter wind blowing on the Eyrie. She went outside and let the air sting her cheeks. It was snowing.

The flakes melted in her hair, but kept coming. They covered the path already and it wouldn’t be long before the shrubberies were buried. Her skin tingled. She wondered if all snow came from the same place. She watched her own footsteps disappear behind her. If it snowed long enough, it might cover everything.

She made some snowballs and threw them at the stone statues dotted around the garden. It wasn’t much fun. The statue didn’t squeal or run or return the attack. 

She tried to pack the snow into the shape of a sword, but it kept breaking up. There was no pointy end.

“Pack the snow around a stick.”

She didn’t look round. He’d been watching her for some time. She hadn’t let him sneak up on her after that first time. 

She said, “What happened to Sansa?”

She could feel his smile behind her back. He placed his cloak around her shoulders. 

“What do you think happened to her?” he asked.  
“I’m not playing this stupid game.”

“If you win, I’ll get your Needle back.”

“She’s dead.”

He shook his head.

“She must be,” Arya said. “They made her marry the Imp. The Imp killed Joffrey.”

“How do you know?”

She blinked, surprised. “They’re talking about it in all the taverns. Everyone is. The smallfolk don’t know who they’re supposed to be loyal to, except that it depends on who’s trying to kill them.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

She didn’t say anything for a long time. He sat beside her quietly enough to be forgotten.

“All right. Joffrey’s dead, and they’re going to kill the Imp for it. Perhaps someone wanted them both dead.”

“Who would want that?”

The Starks, she wanted to say; the Northmen, her father’s bannermen, Robb’s liege lords. She said, “Me.”

He looked amused. The urge to kill him ebbed idly across her mind.

“Only you?”

“Well… there’s Sansa. She was standing right there when Joffrey killed Father, and she must have been ill at having to marry the Imp. Sansa couldn’t kill anyone though.”

“That’s probably what she thinks about you.”

Arya scrunched up her face in thought. “That’s different, though. It wouldn’t even occur to Sansa to think of it.” 

“You might be surprised.”

“Anyway, I don’t care who killed Joffrey as long as he’s dead. So you think she’s… alive.” She was annoyed with herself for struggling to get the word out. She’d seen so many things. She was hardly going to break over stupid Sansa. “Sansa’s alive.”

Her eyes flitted to his long enough to see him nod, then away.

“She can’t be in King’s Landing or she’d be on trial with the Imp. She must have escaped. Someone must have helped her.”

“And who might do a dangerous thing like that?”

“Probably some stupid knight who’s in love with her or something.”

“Some stupid knight who was in love with her would have demanded to be her champion in a trial by combat. Someone planned this, Arya. You have no idea how closely the Lannisters guarded their little pet. The Tyrells had a notion of marrying her to their crippled heir, but Tywin Lannister heard of it and married her to the dwarf.”

“How did he find out?”

“The Lannisters have power and gold, Arya. Anyone in King’s Landing would sell Sansa’s secrets for the merest chance of favour. Getting her out would be no easy feat. I should know, I tried.”

“So why would anyone help her then, if it wasn’t for love? Sansa’s not got any power or gold.”

“She has a claim on the North and on Casterly Rock.”

Arya found herself packing another snowball. She patted it from hand to hand.”

“I don’t understand the things people want.”

“You’ll learn.”

She threw the ball at the castle wall.

“Robb’s men,” she said. “He must have sent someone to get her back.”

“And how did this pack of wolves get into the Red Keep?”

“My mother’s uncle, then. The Blackfish.”

“At Riverrun.”

“What about the Dornish?” she said at last. “One of their princes is going to be the Imp’s champion, I heard you tell Aunt Lysa. Well… I heard Aunt Lysa yell when you told her.”

“What do the Dornish want?”

“They’ve got Princess Myrcella. Under Dornish law, she’s got a better claim to the throne than Tommen. She’s going to marry one of their princes. They could marry Sansa to another one and when they crown Myrcella, they can use Sansa to win the North to their side.”

“Very good,” he said, “But Sansa’s already married.”

“The Imp’s going to be executed.”

“Only if Prince Oberyn falls.”

“Oh.”

“Think, Arya.” His lips were very close to her ear, as if there were anyone or anything to hear, other than the mountains and the weeping sky. “Is there really no one else who might want Joffrey dead?”

“The Tyrells!” She jumped and nearly tripped over Petyr’s cloak. “Sansa always went all cow-eyed over the flowery knight.”

“And what use would she be to them, married to a Lannister?”

“Maybe Sansa warned the Tyrells about Joffrey. They killed him so that Margaery wouldn’t have to be his wife and…” She squeezed too hard and a snowball burst in her hand. “…And with Tyrion dead one of them can marry Sansa!”

The next snowball burst against the back of Arya’s head.

“Ow!”

Little Lord Robert giggled until he started to wheeze. Arya let the cloak fall from her shoulders. She scooped up some more snow and threw it without bothering to pack it into a ball. That made him laugh harder, so she made the next one nearly as big as a cannonball. He screamed, then began to shake.

At first she took it for a tantrum and hit him with another. Then he collapsed on the ground and his limbs flailed uncontrollably. She dropped to her knees and seized his wrists.

“I’m sorry, it’s all right, you’re all right.” She looked around for Littlefinger. “The Maester!”

It was the first time it had occurred to her that she didn’t want her cousin to die.

 

*

 

The next time she had a dream about Sansa, Arya didn’t go outside. She found her way to the High Hall. It was one part of the Eyrie she hadn’t seen yet. She had heard it described, of course, and one of the books in the library at Winterfell even had a picture. She wanted to see the infamous Moon Door for herself.

She ran her hand along the marble wall until she reached the door. There was a crescent moon carved in the wood. She put her ear to the door and listened to the wind howl. It sounded like a song about a battle that would never end.

Three bronze bars held the door closed. She lifted the first two slowly but as soon as she began to raise the third it flew upwards and the door slammed inwards. The shock of the wind sent her to her knees. She crawled forward and stuck her head out.

There was nothing there. 

She could barely even see the falling snow against the white sky. It was past dawn, but it was easy to believe there was no such thing as the sun. Even death itself was so far below it might not even be real. 

Arya felt deliriously alive.

She inched farther out, her whole body trembling. 

“Are you trying to kill yourself, fool girl?” 

The rushing of the wind had drowned out the steps behind her. Lysa grabbed her by the hair and dragged her up and back to the solid ground beneath her feet. She felt a sense of loss. Lysa did not shut the door.

“Well? Are you?” 

“No. I haven’t finished my list.”

Lysa wasn’t listening. 

“You have no business being in here. You have no business here at all! If you were your sister, maybe you’d be of some use, but you’re just a little savage.”

Lysa twisted her fingers in Arya’s hair and gave her a shake.

“Fine. I’ll go. Just give me enough money to take a ship...”

“Money? Money? Do you think I don’t know what you want, girl? You’re just like your mother, you want what’s mine.”

“I’m sorry about the snowballs. I didn’t mean to hurt Robert, but he started it.”

Lysa slapped her across the face. She was surprised at how much such a small thing stung.  
“You can’t have Robert! He’s mine! You think you can marry him and rule the Vale, don’t you? And you only need him long enough to get a baby in you. If you didn’t bully him into fits, no matter, it’s easily done for a wife to slip something in her lord husband’s food!”

Arya stared at her.

“You’re mad. I wouldn’t marry Robert for all the gold in Casterly Rock.”

Lysa shrieked. It hurt to hear that much pain. Her aunt shook her like a rag and her foot slipped against the snow packed around the edge of the Moon Door. Lysa was behind her, as solid in that moment as Mord who guarded the sky cells, digging her claws in, so there was no way to go but forward and down.

Arya almost took a step.

Instead, she stopped scratching at Lysa’s grip with her uselessly blunted nails and reached inside her shift, scrabbling for the loop she’d sewn there.

The tug of the sky pulled her out more than anything. She would have fallen for real, for good, if Lysa hadn’t still had a fistful of her hair.

Her fingers tightened and the dagger slipped free from its noose. She pulled it out and spun in the furious air. 

For moments they danced on a pinhead. Arya had the knife at Lysa’s throat, but one good shove would send her to her death. 

“Lysa!”

His cry broke the spell but they didn’t loosen their grips until he wrenched them apart.

Lysa wept. Littlefinger kept his gaze steady on Arya till she dropped the dagger and backed up enough to hug one of the white pillars, the door’s sentries.

“Where did you get that?”

“From the Hound, when he was too feverish to stop me. You took Needle because anyone could see it, but nobody searched _me_ when we came up the mountain.”

He pulled Lysa to him. She shook and wailed and he murmured soft nothings into her hair.

“It was _her_ , don’t you understand? She’s savage, she knocked Robert down. She could have _killed_ him! That’s what she means to do, don’t you see it?”

“I am here, my love. All you have to do is take my hand. Come on, now.”

Lysa threw herself into Littlefinger’s arms, sobbing. “Do you love us, truly?” He let her sob against his chest, then put his hands on his arms and kissed her lightly. 

Arya watched his body tense for one short, sharp shove. He wasn’t looking as she reached to pick up the dagger.

_“Mama!”_ Lord Robert ran out from behind the weirwood throne. “Why didn’t you make her fly! I want her to fly!”

He didn’t notice Arya had moved around her pillar. She caught him before his mother could reach him. She had the dagger at his throat. It was so easy to hold onto someone so feeble. Maybe that was why men killed. It was easy and life was hard. She couldn’t resist twitching the knife to draw a drop of blood. 

Nobody spoke.

At last, he said, “Arya. You’re not going to hurt him. He’s not your enemy. You don’t have to stay here if you don’t like it. Drop the knife.”

The little lord was trembling in her grasp.

“And you’re not going to hurt my aunt. But if you do, do you think it makes a difference to me, after my father, my mother, my brothers are all gone?”

“So drop the knife, child. Of course I’m not going to hurt anyone. We’re family.”

“No. You’re not going to hurt anyone. Because if you do, I’m going to kill the only thing between you and the lords of the Vale who already want your head on a spike.”

This time, Lysa didn’t scream.

The wind did, roaring through the hall and filling Arya with its howl. She planted her feet firmly on the floor, braced herself against the pillar and tightened her hold.

Littlefinger hesitated.

“Uncle.” She smiled. “Do you know how to fly?”

 

* 

End


End file.
